


Darkness Visible

by startwithsparks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Demonic Possession, F/M, Religious Content, Sexual Content, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:03:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in Puritan New England; at the height of witch-hunt hysteria, a young minister's daughter finds herself the unwitting target of a mysterious man's affection. Is he just a stranger to their village, or is he the devil himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness Visible

The light along her forehead played-  
A wan, unearthly glare;  
Her cheek was pale beneath the shade  
The wildness of her tresses made,  
Yet nought of fear was there!  
Now God have mercy on thy brain,  
Thou stricken traveller!  
Look on thy victim once again,  
Bethink thee of her wrongs and pain-  
Dost thou remember her?  
The traveller smote his burning brow,  
For he saw the wronged one there  
He knew her by her forehead's snow,  
And by her large, blue eye below,  
And by her wild, dark hair.  
\- John Greenleaf Whittier, _The Weird Gathering_

Her skirts clung wet to her legs, bare feet slipping on the mossy slopes of stones and beaten smooth by the river. On the other bank beyond, her shoes and stockings set on an old fallen log, and nearby a woven basket toppling over with all manner of freshly gathered berries. She'd been sent out shortly after midday and now the sun flickered and flit between the rustling leaves, casting shimmering pools of light on the surface of the river. Arya splashed through the shallow water, kicking up fallen leaves and clumps of moss, digging her bare feet into the mud, and squishing it between her toes. Her mother would be angry that she'd gotten dirty, but her father - ever pious and ever forgiving of his youngest daughter's whims - would merely laugh and kiss her forehead before sending her to wash up.

It wasn't idleness that drove her towards the stream. She had been leaning over the bank trying to gather the ripest berries on a branch when she'd simply slipped in. Then, seeing as the damage was already done, she waded out to the middle of the stream and let the water murmur against her skin. There was no harm in it, her basket was full and her other duties had already been tended to; there was no reason why she shouldn't spend a moment enjoying the natural blessings of the world. These rare idyllic moments were hard to come by and, for her, they were precious.

But even she tired of them in time, and waded back towards the riverbank, her skirts hauled up around her thighs to keep them from getting any wetter than they were already. She didn't bother with her shoes and stockings, but folded them up in her apron instead and tucked her basket into the nook of her elbow. Her hair fell loose from under her bonnet, thick dark curls framing her narrow face and large, dark eyes. She had her father's coloring, fair of flesh and dark featured. Her other siblings took after their mother, chestnut-colored curls and eyes the color of the ocean. She always thought that was why her father favored her so much, that and she was the mirror image of his long-dead sister, though she would never speak of that and he would never admit to it if she did.

From the riverbank, it was just a few yards to a narrow footpath used by the farmers to make their way to the village and back. The path was lined with forest on one side and field on the other, shambling fences vaguely partitioning one man's property from his neighbors. She could cut across the fields, slipping between stalks of wheat and beans and corn, but it suited her more to take the long way around. Perhaps the mud on her feet and her damp skirts would be dry and she could make herself seem presentable before she reached the village. Everyone knew the minister's daughter had a wild streak in her, but the least she could do was not pad barefoot through town. It wouldn't do her any good if her mother had a fit over some perceived indecency.

Arya had her thoughts for company as she continued down the trail, kicking up dust and small rocks as she walked. It was enough to keep her well occupied, so much so that she didn't notice the man who'd cut through the forest and started following a few yards behind her. Eventually she became aware of another presence on the path, however, and glanced faintly over her shoulder. She only had time to make out a lanky frame lingering behind her, a bag hauled over one shoulder and his hat pulled down low over his eyes. But as soon as he realized that she'd seen him, he picked up his pace and started towards her.

"Sweet girl," he called to her, and twist around to watch him coming up the path behind her.

He looked unkempt, his long hair in tangles and a streak of gray framing one side of his face, in dire need of a bath and a good hunk of bread. She couldn't tell if his skin was darkened from working in the sun or because he had a touch of Native in him, but his eyes were clear and bright and his smile kind. Even the tone of his voice was rich, gentle. Her father taught her to be polite to strangers, but her mother would have her not speak to them at all. For a moment, she felt the faintest whisper of uncertainty, but by the time he'd reached her, she'd resolved that it would be a far worse thing to be unmannered. Instead, she canted her head up at him and absently pressed an escaped strand of hair back into her bonnet.

"Could a traveler find place to rest in this village?" he asked, nodding up the trail.

Arya chewed on her lip. She couldn't rightfully answer that, but her father had never turned away a traveler, even one who seemed so obviously an outsider. Some may disagree with his generosity, but he believed that every unfamiliar face was a chance to do God's work. Finally, she nodded.

"There's lodging at the tavern," she replied. In truth, there were a couple of rooms that served as a humble inn and little more. While they often had visitors to the village, they were often in the company of one of the local families and had no need for lodging outside the homes of their relations. But the widow who worked the tavern could be persuaded to offer one of her rooms for a night, and not necessarily for coin either. If a man was capable enough to lend a skilled hand, he could always find hospitality there.

"Is a girl going that way as well?"

The question seemed strange to her for some reason, but she nodded again and stepped to the side of the path, silently welcoming him to walk with her. "I live in the village," she replied, as he fell in step with her. "My father is the minister."

That seemed to amuse him, and he smiled brightly down at her, sunlight glinting in his eyes. "A man finds fortune," he laughed.

He didn't speak much, and for that she was grateful. Idle chatter bored her and it would do neither of them a service if someone found something unseemly about their momentary companionship. She was merely showing him to town and he, though he was a stranger, was simply ensuring that she did not have to walk alone. The path was not so long either, and soon enough the fields gave way to tended hills and neat rows of houses. The path widened and met with larger wagon-trails that curved along the edge of the hill then up a gentle slope. She stopped to pull her shoes back on, and took the moment to point him towards the tavern. He thanked her and bid her a good day, tipping his hat, and continued along the road as she stood there and watched him go.

For a moment she regret that she hadn't asked him his name or where his strange accent came from, but it hadn't mattered to her until after the opportunity passed. She wondered if she would have the opportunity to see him again before he moved on to the next village, the next inn, but she pushed the thought from her mind as soon as it struck her, and pressed on towards home.

*

Her mother said nothing of the dirt on her dress, nor that on her hands and feet. She seemed all too used to Arya coming home a mess and must have considered it a small victory that she could wash away her follies this time. By the time she had, her father was home and dinner was out on the table, and not long after the sun dipped beneath the horizon and the little ones were sent to bed. Arya would have gone with them, but while her mother sorted the berries she'd picked, her father read aloud from his Bible, so she stayed to listen under the pretense of being a help to her mother. It didn't matter what the scripture was or even if she enjoyed the story being read, the sound of her father's voice was all too soothing. She knew that it wouldn't be long before she, like her older sister and brothers, would have to leave her parents' home and make one for herself. She wanted these little moments while she had them.

And when her father finally shooed her off to bed, she went without complaint, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then her mother's. While the boys slept close to their parents, Arya had the small room at the top of the stairs that she'd once shared with her sister. They had shared a bed up until the day of Sansa's wedding, and since then she swayed madly between relishing in the space her sister's absence offered and desperately missing having someone close to her. Of course, she would admit neither of those things, but it was the thought that stayed with her as she pulled back the quilt and slid between the linen sheets. The moon shone brightly through her window, heavy and round, casting light on even the darkest corners of the room. It was a comfort to fall asleep bathed in that blue glow, a gentle breeze sweeping through the open window and brushing against her cheeks.

*

At some ungodly hour, Arya woke with a sudden start. She'd been having a dream that she couldn't remember and it left her heart racing hard in her chest. Her mouth felt dry and the room was hot, sticky. Somehow the wind had battered her window shut again and the room had become stifling without the breeze flowing through it. She pushed away her tangled sheets and slipped out of bed, shuffling quietly towards the window. The moon had moved enough that it was no longer framed neatly there, but instead peered coyly from around the edge. Stifling a yawn, Arya twist the latch and pushed open the window, leaning on the sill as the wind whispered through her hair. She could have fallen asleep there, she thought, and might have were it not for the faint movement below.

She caught it in the corner of her eye, a blur of darkness beneath her window, and pushed herself up to lean out over the ledge. Below, his eyes reflecting the light of the moon, was the stranger from the trail. He watched her intently, a smile firmly in place on his lips. He beckoned to her and she furrowed her brows, trying to decide if she wanted to answer his call or not.

The conflict hardly had time to begin before she'd decided on it. He held his hand out for her and she turned from the window, grabbing her cloak from the back of a chair and wrapping it tight around her shoulders. She knew every creak and whine in the house and managed to avoid all of them, bare feet making little sound as she slipped outside. She saw him vanish around the side of the house and followed, nightgown and cloak billowing around her. Then further back, and on into the grove of trees that lined one edge of the village. He was little more than a shadow in front of her, but the moon gave her enough light to see him by.

The ground was cool and wet under her feet, hair snagging on wayward branches. For a moment she felt as though she were chasing him, but then she stepped into a small clearing and found him there, waiting. Even in this light, his skin was dark, and his hair as well but for that shock of gray. He'd changed from the ragged clothes he wore on the path and washed the dirt from his body, but his smile remained completely unchanged. She still couldn't say what it that attracted her to him, but she smiled back and reached for his hand when he offered it to her again.

His hands were rough, but he held her tenderly and drew her closer. He smelled of warmth and earth, the faint scent of smoke in his hair. She wasn't taken to flights of fancy the way other girls her age were, but that didn't mean that she didn't know what desire felt like. She was old enough to have experienced it before, to know what the subtle urgency meant. There was nothing in the scripture condemning desire, except for when it was misplaced, and she saw no sign that the traveler belonged to anyone else or, for any reason, shouldn't be the willing recipient of her interest. It was a pull that she couldn't be bothered trying to explain. All that mattered to her, in that moment, was that the feeling continued to dwell within her.

"Lovely girl," he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead.

He brushed kisses through her tangled hair and down her cheek, his aquiline nose bumping against hers, his lips a hint of a promise at the corner of her mouth. She'd never been kissed before, at least not in a way that seemed to matter as much as this, and all she could do was follow where he led her. He seemed to dance on the edge of action, waiting for her to answer him each time before he moved a step further. Every time she responded with eagerness.

He loosened her cloak, and it dropped softly from her shoulders, then his hands moved to the front of her nightgown and the delicate laces there. The cool breeze made her skin prickle as a shiver rolled languidly up her spine, but she allowed the fabric to pool around her feet as well. She didn't feel shame in her own nakedness, though she was aware that she was meant to. Instead she stood there boldly, her hair cascading over her shoulders and small breasts, her arms loose next to her narrow waist. He undressed as well, shirt and trousers and boots dropped into a pile at his feet. Then his hands and lips were on her again.

It was dizzying the way he kissed her, his mouth finally meeting her own and drawing the air slowly from her lungs. She draped her arms around his shoulders and held her body close to his, feeling her limbs respond swiftly to the touch of bare flesh against warm, bare flesh. She could never have imagined that it would feel like this, but she understood now the warnings against these carnal pleasures. A man could become consumed by this fire, and she felt at risk of losing herself to it as well. But her concern seemed so trivial, with his hands roaming the hills and valleys of her body, and she couldn't find it in her make him stop. Why should man be damned for indulging in something so clearly made by God. The devil could not devise something so sweet, nor so brilliant, not in all his clever ways.

As they embraced, he lowered her gently to the floor of the clearing, their clothes making a bed for them as he drew her into his arms, her knees on either side of his hips. His arms wrapped snug around her waist and his hands splayed across her back. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her entire body aching to be close to his. He kissed her, and it felt like he was trying to consume her, and she gave herself to it willingly - every touch, every whisper. He offered her no promises there, and she expected none of him, it was enough that he give her this moment.


End file.
